


it seems you've set it running free

by adjuvantQ



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves, let harrow get fucked, op requested 'a big ol dick' and i'd like to think i delivered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29994261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjuvantQ/pseuds/adjuvantQ
Summary: They have an agreement with the locals that no one will come here on the night of the full moon. They think they're avoiding Harrow's necromancy. They are not.*Werewolf Gideon fucks human Harrow on the night of the full moon.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 7
Kudos: 79
Collections: TLT Kink Meme





	it seems you've set it running free

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on the kink meme:
> 
> "There's gotta be more werewolf Gideon absolutely railing Harrow (human, vampire, or werewolf). You get bonus points if Gideon has a big ol dick
> 
> Psst, op here, you get even more points if you really focus on the size difference detween them"
> 
> Gideon DOES have a big ol werewolf dick in this fic so if that's not your thing I hope you read this note

Gideon is always larger than her, but on these nights, the difference is obscene. Harrow shivers to think of her thin hand laid against her cavalier's, which is enormous, with five beautiful bone-white claws and furious red fur.

They have an agreement with the locals that no one will come here on the night of the full moon. They think they're avoiding Harrow's necromancy. They are not. Gideon has spent several hours running wild in their woods, wearing herself out, working herself up. Harrow laid a painstaking line of her own blood around what they have, and Gideon will not cross that boundary when she is like this. Sooner or later, she always returns to the house.

Harrow leaves the door unlocked. Her wards these days are written for two. Gideon is free to scrabble the front door open and lunge up the stairs, panting, as she does now.

Harrow set aside her book when she heard the door. She long ago flipped back the sheets and discarded her chin-to-wrist-to-floor black nightgown. Her cavalier pauses in their bedroom doorway to stare silently.

Gideon like this is almost two Harrows tall, but almost never straightens up all the way, being somewhere between quadri- and bipedal. Her great wedge-shaped head is covered not with hair, but with sleek, thick fur in the same color, and crowned by a pair of ridiculous (beautiful) ears that prick and swivel. She is built to run and catch and devour.

It's lucky for her that Harrow is so ready to be caught.

In one long stride, Gideon lunges across the bedroom floor. Harrow startles (impossible for her not to) but Gideon is already between her legs, awkwardly wrapping her arms around Harrow's ass, nuzzling into the juncture of her legs. The surface of her fur is cold from her run. "Gi-" she starts, then whines. Gideon is sliding her tongue against her, parting her folds. She curls that tongue against Harrow's clit and Harrow already has to reach down and hang on for her life.

She shudders, working herself against Gideon’s mouth. Space-black eyes stare back at her. The whole vivid furred hide of her cavalier, five hundred muscular kilograms, ripples as Gideon fights the urge to bowl her over. Harrow loves to see this; to see her half-consumed by her own desire, but more invested in Harrow’s.

This is a particular secret of Harrow’s. Someday she will keep her fingers in herself while Gideon is howling in the woods, roll over for her the instant her claws touch the threshold. When she spends hours anticipating this every time, the foreplay isn’t quite so _necessary._

But she hasn’t been that impatient yet. Gideon’s tongue leaves her clit, where she’d been pressing her hips into the broad, hot, wet stripe of sensation, to lap at her entrance. Harrow hears herself groan. Her voice is ragged. Gideon growls with her own satisfaction, and presses her tongue forward, licking into her.

Coarse-soft fur presses against her thighs. Claws prick at her lower back. Her adductor muscles ache where the huge head presses them apart. Harrow is conscious of the noise she’s making this time. This is all Gideon can do to open her up while transformed: she knows what she’s thinking of, when her cavalier’s fur bristles and her breath comes faster and hotter against her.

“Beloved,” Harrow gasps, “more.”

Gideon presses as close as she can, maw to cunt, tongue twisting inside of her. Harrow presses carefully at her clit, still too sensitive to do more, and closes her eyes against her own cry.

When she is still, Gideon’s tongue slides out. Gideon rumbles with satisfaction, grinning lopsidedly at her, and Harrow smiles back.

“Back a little, Griddle,” she says, and Gideon slides back obediently, letting her reach for the lubricant.

This is the most difficult part for Gideon, who always struggles with self-control like this. Harrow would like to think she’s trained her well, though. She settles back nicely on her haunches, and Harrow’s eyes trail down her front automatically before she sets one foot on each of Gideon’s thighs. Gideon’s eyes blaze, for all that they’ll never be lipochrome again. But her werewolf doesn’t move.

“Good, Griddle,” Harrow says, flipping back the cap of the lubricant for the first time that night. “You take direction very well.”

(Praise given to Harrow still sometimes feels like acid on the skin. The sincerity is too much to bear. But giving it to Gideon, who thrives under it, only ever heals them both.)

Harrow slicks three of her fingers, but starts with one, as a sort of bellwether. It’s fine- she knows inside of a few seconds that she can take more. The second finger always feels better than the first, and she groans, settling down and pressing her unpainted cheek to the sheets. When she curls her fingers, she stops breathing for a moment under the sweet rush of pressure, hears Gideon stop breathing too.

Her goal isn’t for either of them to come right now. She just needs to make it easier on herself for when Gideon fucks her. Harrow thinks of less practiced times, of shock and desire mixed, of leaves stuck to her knees and clothing clumsily torn. Once Gideon filled her too early and couldn’t leave her alone until daybreak. It’s a treasured memory, even given how sore she was afterwards.

Gideon growls and leans forward and Harrow applies her cruel, sharp heels directly to the muscles of her thighs. Her cavalier grumbles and settles back, tongue swiping around her teeth. Not that it’s not wonderful to have someone licking around her fingers but- Harrow thinks, as she pulls them out for more lubricant and starts back at two- with all the effort it took to get her to sit in the first place, Harrow won’t be letting her backtrack one centimetre.

“Do you like seeing this, Griddle?” Harrow asks out loud. Her voice is loud in the quiet of the bedroom, surrounded by the silence of the winter outside. Both of them know the answer already- it’s not necessary for anyone to say more out loud. Gideon’s tail whips behind her.

Even loyal and well-directed, Gideon is still a wolf on nights like these, and herself to boot. By the time Harrow ekes in her fourth finger, forcing an undignified noise out of herself, Gideon has leaned forward an additional twenty degrees. Her clawed hands have slid forward enough to touch Harrow’s legs. There is an impatient growl in the back of her throat, building and building and building, like the fire they keep in each other.

Harrow abandons her clit, coats her free hand in lube, and opens it in invitation. “Come here.”

Gideon half-bounds up the bed, tucked closely to her side, Harrow’s cheek to her chest, pressing her belly to Harrow’s hand. Harrow fumbles for a moment, then finds where Gideon is just starting to reveal herself. Her fingers trace her tip, press just below her head, coaxing her cavalier along until she unsheathes, burning against the comparative chill of the lube. Gideon half-groans, half-howls, raising all the hair on Harrow’s very human arms. She loves her.

“There, Gideon,” she says, to hear how the sound changes: one of her ears is pressed to the drum of her cavalier’s chest, to hear the aggressive thump of her heart, the hiss of blood and acids. Gideon’s voice trails up and up as her cock presses into and then through the circle of Harrow’s hand, trembling (both of them trembling), and breaks as Harrow tightens her fingers around the expanse of her in one gradual stroke.

Every time like this, Gideon’s head and arms never quite seem to know what to do, and she clutches at the bedding and shakes and tilts her head back as if she’s going to howl. Her hips know _exactly_ what to do, and pick up a steady rhythm against Harrow’s hand, stuttering every now and then in search of more. It would be funny, if it weren’t so hot, and if it didn’t make Harrow feel so awfully, horrifyingly tender.

Harrow lets go, reaches for more lube- better to be safe. Gideon keens. But her hand returns quickly enough to keep her from being too dissatisfied. They're lucky on multiple counts: Gideon's cock is small in proportion to herself, but large in proportion to Harrow, who has always been ambitious.

Harrow eyes the relative positions of her distal phalanges, and suddenly, it’s urgent for both of them. Impossible to keep her other hand inside of herself while she flips over, but she does her best. When her fingers slide out, they are pruned and messy, and she quickly scrubs them against the towel by her head.

Gideon by this time has lunged forward to cover her. Harrow shivers as the whole of her back presses against warm fur for a moment; above her, a clawed hand braces itself against the plain, sturdy headboard. A second hand rests carefully on her shoulder. When Gideon nudges her to the angle she needs, Harrow feels so light-headed with desire that she snaps, “will you get _on_ with it?”

Of course, once she’s said that, Gideon has to drag it out. Her cock presses between Harrow’s thighs, smearing lubricant everywhere. A groan rattles up from deep inside of her, like some noise driven from their trees by the wind, and Harrow gasps silently for air. It’s a cruel tease to have her sliding against her folds and barely nudging her clit. The heavy blanket of cavalier draped over her presses closer for a moment, to no avail.

"Stop moving," she orders, in what Gideon would call her 'bitchy little voice.' Gideon stops stock-still above her. Harrow can practically feel her fur bristling; it occurs to her that they've never done this while Gideon's frustrated with her. She files the idea away for a discussion and another month. Even as a werewolf distracted by other stimulation, it won't be hard to pick an argument with her.

Instead of doing that now, Harrow lines her up as best she can. Gideon's breath scalds her shoulders as she leans back, trying to help.

The first moment or two are always tricky. Harrow gets the tip inside of her, hissing at the pleasant stretch, and Gideon stays so tremblingly still that it tugs at a dreadful line of emotion in her. She forces her body to relax, rolls her hips back, listens to the aborted _ouuuuuu_ in Gideon's chest that ought to be ridiculous but instead makes all of the tiny hairs of her nape stand up.

"Please," Harrow says, and the noise Gideon makes in response to that is better to her than any bell or blessing.

Then she presses in. The feeling of fullness, of inexorable movement, is overwhelming - crowds out all other sensation, makes her breath hasten, her limbs tremble. Her heart rate increases; her capillaries admit additional blood; various neurotransmitters are produced, spat out, and directed. Harrow’s Lyctor-view of her own body is absolute until interrupted by the nervous system sustaining it, and then it winks out in places, distorts, and vanishes; and yet by some cooperative trick of her brain this feels completely normal.

Also, she can’t shut up.

“Gideon,” Harrow says involuntarily, “Gideon- _Griddle!”_ Her voice breaks around a sob as Gideon pushes in just a little further and presses against the spot she'd introduced to Harrow in their first fumbling attempts. She gasps for air. For a long minute, all she can do is take it as her cavalier strains against her, pushing smoothly and inexorably inside of her, a long, nearly cruel slide that pierces her through with desire and ruins her self-control. Gideon's claws, half-blunted, scrabble against the headboard. Gideon’s muscles tense and bunch as she fights not to move too quickly. Gideon envelops her: above her, inside her, fur brushing her sides.

“H’rrow,” she forces out. Harrow feels the cascade of responses between the pair of them: her muscles tighten, her wife shudders, Gideon’s hips jump, Harrow’s breath leaves her.

“Griddle,” Harrow says. Her voice is a wreck cut through by desire.

“Good,” Gideon manages to say. The noise Harrow makes is miserably humiliating; if anyone _but_ Gideon had heard it, she would have had to kill them. She fumbles one of her hands down to touch herself again, cries out when her fingers make contact.

For a long few minutes, Gideon controls herself and trembles in place as Harrow works herself up. Every time Harrow tightens around her she pants for air. Harrow doesn’t have far to tighten; each time her muscles tense, it’s so much she can barely see. She comes without expecting to, shaking apart inside the rebar frame of her cavalier.

“It’s-” she gasps when she regains control of her vocal cords. “It’s fine- Griddle, I’m fine, move-”

Harrow's body has never been of much relevance to her, but it can do this, can enjoy it, and she has condescended to love that about it. Gideon presses her down into the bed with one huge, impatient hand around her shoulder, claws sheathed, and _fucks_ her. Every thrust drives air from her in undignified noises. Harrow gasps for breath between. Her blood rushes in her ears. Gideon's soul is burning in her chest, and every time she clenches around her, they feel the echo of the other's stab of pleasure: Harrow full to the brim and shaking, Gideon half-wild in her and already falling apart.

"H'rrow," Gideon says. "Harrow-"

Her cavalier shakes and whines her way through, finally, her first orgasm, hips rolling against her. Harrow is conscious of the added heat and wetness. It's irrelevant to the workings of her body, but it makes her feel inexplicably tender, the way Gideon's pleasure always does now.

Harrow reaches her hand up, tangles it in Gideon's fur. Her wife braces herself above her, chest heaving as she pulls in air. There will be more.

True to form, Gideon only takes a minute or so to recover, and never really softens. Then she growls under her breath and adjusts herself, a process that leaves Harrow keening and seeing stars.

"Good?" Gideon asks roughly.

"Good, yes, hurry _up!"_

It takes less than a minute to send Harrow over the edge again. She sobs something unintelligible while Gideon crowds her against the bed to hold her still. “Beloved,” she says against the sheets once her voice resolves itself back into something usable. She sounds to her own ears as if she’d let Gideon fuck her throat again.

Gideon growls, and the little bit of her stupid meat brain dedicated to oversized predators makes her twitch. The thumb by the medial border of her scapula strokes the skin of Harrow’s back to soothe her. She lets herself relax into her wife and hears the pleased little noise she earns in reply.

“Come on, Griddle,” Harrow murmurs. “I know you have more.”

“Harrow,” Gideon whimpers, and ruts against her again. She’s almost too sensitive, but she’s tired now, and under her exhaustion the whiteout of overstimulation fades until it becomes strangely enjoyable. It’s so good to lie under the warm bulk of her cavalier, covered in fur. Gideon has always made a superlative blanket.

“Best of us all,” Harrow whispers. “I want it, Gideon. I have always been- greedy, for you.”

Gideon half-howls, half-roars as she comes, claws rattling at the headboard. Her jaws snap shut on thin air. Harrow isn’t sure if it’s an aftershock or a very tiny orgasm, but she whimpers her way through one last wave on the edge of too much, propelled by the final buck of Gideon’s hips. Gray light is starting to seep in at the window. The weight above her becomes the weight beside her, huddling close as Gideon gently separates the two of them, so that neither of them feels lonely unwarranted. If this is their reward, Harrow will hold on with both hands.


End file.
